“That’s a horse,” I protested; “not a locomotive.”
“What do you know?” came from behind; “And we thought we was on the Erie.”
“He’s tired,” I persisted, “and he’s pulling too much weight.”
“Shut up,” ordered Sprovis quietly. “Shut up.” The quietness was not deceptive; it was ominous. I shut up.
Speed was stupid on several counts. For one thing it called attention to the van at a time when most commercial vehicles had been stabled for the night and the traffic was almost entirely carriages, buggies, hacks and minibiles. I visualized the suspicious crowd which would gather immediately if our horse dropped from exhaustion. There was no hope that consciousness of an innocuous cargo made Sprovis bold; whatever we carried was bound to be as incriminating as the counterfeit bills.
Disconnected scraps of conversation drifted from Sprovis’ companions. “I says, ‘Look here, youre making a nice profit from selling abroad. Either you....’”
“And of course he put it all on a twenty-dollar ticket even though....”
“‘ ... my taxes,’ he says. ‘You worry about your taxes,’ I says; ‘I’m worried about your contributions.’”
A monotonous chuffing close behind us forced itself into my consciousness; when we turned eastward in the Forties I exclaimed, “There’s a minibile following us!”
Even as I spoke the trackless engine pulled alongside and then darted ahead to pocket us by nosing diagonally toward the curb. The horse must have been too weak to shy; he simply stopped short and I heard the curses of the felled passengers behind me.